The Passover Kid

                                                                 


It was only  a few weeks until Passover, and our home was buzzing with activity . Every member of our family was caught up in  the frenzy of moving, cleaning and cooking that swept like a giant wave through the house.

As a young boy,there were probably a million things I would rather have done than wash the tile walls in our kitchen. But, hour after tedious hour, I perched  on a step stool with a bucket full of hot soap suds, a sponge, and an endless supply of clean rags. Preparing for Passover in the traditional Jewish home meant hunting down and killing every trace of "chometz" or leavened products, including any that could have migrated to the walls. This was mega spring cleaning and in our house, it was all- out war against "chometz."  Just when I thought I was done,Mom would come over to inspect my work and utter the dreaded words,"You missed a whole section over there." . When I finally finished ,the yellow ceramic tile fairly gleamed. All done until next year!

Oddly enough,though, I  really loved my other task,  lugging crates and bushels of Passover dishes up from the basement.  Once they were on the back porch, I carefully unwrapped the newspaper from the plates, cups, saucers, glasses, pots and pans and began to catch up on what happened the year before. I guess you could call it Jewish microfilm. After reading the front page, comic and movie sections, the paper was discarded, but after Passover, fresh newspaper was wrapped around the dishes, and a new time capsule was created.

To my unbridled joy,the arrival of Passover at our house meant open season on seltzer and soda. For reasons only known to my parents, we weren't allowed to have soda in the house most of the year. I suspect it had to do with the high sugar content and the absence of diet soda in those days. But come Passover, suddenly cases of ginger ale and cola magically appeared, along with my favorite, seltzer in  old fashioned siphon bottles. I'm talking about the kind of bottles that clowns used to  squirted each other in a circus. Seltzer in siphons also  had major carbonation and could produce a burp heard in the next neighborhood. The best part about having soda was that, after Passover, we could return the empties and spend the deposits on comic books and baseball cards.

Closing my eyes, I can still picture our family seders. First, of course, there's Dad, who led every seder with a  consummate skill. born of long practice. He made sure we all had equal  parts of the Haggadah  to read. At the beginning of the seder, he hid the afikomen in impossible places and doled out rewards when we found it.
Sitting next to Dad, I see a much younger me. . As a Hebrew School student and a singer in the synagogue choir, I loved  doing the readings in Hebrew and singing the traditional songs.  Next to me was my brother, Bob, who, being the youngest, always got the honor of starting the seder with the Four Questions, that began the telling of the Passover story.
Across from Bob sat my sister, Judi, who was quite well schooled in Hebrew and loved to sing  all of the songs in the Haggadah.  When Judi lived in Chicago for a short while, her husband, Al came to our seders, as well as my nephew Paul, who was just a little guy then.
At the other end of the table, close to the kitchen, was Mom. She joined in on all of the singing and reading, but her specialty was the festive meal. Her chicken soup was heavenly, floating with matzoh balls and carrots. She also served us  gefilte fish in jelled sauce, tender roast chicken, sweet matzoh kugel, fresh steamed asparagus, green salad, and fruit cocktail in a fancy sherbet cup. Of course, there was always plenty of matzoh to go around, and lots of  dried fruit to counteract the dreaded  effects of matzoh. And, as I mentioned earlier, the ban on soft drinks was temporarily lifted.

 Next to my mother sat Nanny, my dad's mother. She liked to make jokes with my mother  about the matzoh balls. Every year, they were either too soft, or too hard.  Nanny had her own recipe for making gefilte fish because Manischewitz  from the jar would never do. As a concession to my mother, she chopped, mixed and cooked her homemade recipe in our basement.
  Sitting next to my grandmother was Tante, my wonderful  great-aunt Hattie. She always smiled quietly, taking everything in and reading every word of the Haggadah in Hebrew.

Passover seders were also a time when the family's treasured engraved  silver kiddush cups were taken out of the credenza, polished to a high gloss and used. These cups came from Austro-Hungary with my father's parents, and Israel from a trip Dad had made. My brother, my father and I each had our own cups.Four times during the seder, everyone drank a full cup of sweet kosher wine. Even though the kids portion was considerably smaller, we used the wine as an excuse to act silly, and later it made it hard to stay up past our bed time.

 In a place of  honor, in  the middle of the table, rested a large silver goblet reserved for Elijah. Near the end of the service, my mother opened the front door while Dad chanted a prayer . Tradition had it that the prophet Elijah visited every home and took a sip from his cup. We would stare intensely into Elijah's cup and will the wine to go down. I was absolutely sure the an inch or so of red wine was missing from the goblet and that Elijah had been at our seder.

In addition to the silver wine cups, our family had an antique gilt edged white Passover plate with Hebrew letters indicating the ceremonial objects. Every year, there sprang up  a fresh debate about what went where. The problem would be resolved by using a hagaddah as a reference, but then start up again with the question of which translation was correct.  Some years, potatoes won out over celery, some years we chewed parsley and made faces. The test always came when it came time to sample the horseradish. My dad insisted that we have the strong white variety ,and it always took the top of my head off.

Finally, next to the seder plate was an ornately  hand embroidered matzah cover that held the traditional three pieces of ceremonial matzah used during the seder. Half of one piece was reserved for the afikomen and hidden somewhere for the children to find after the meal . Dad was notorious for stowing the afikomen away in hard to find places,so we had to work hard to  get our rewards. One year, my brother and I were  very much caught up in the cowboy craze and managed to ransom the afikomen for Long Ranger cap pistols.
Somehow, I'm sure the Masked Man would have approved.

Our  seder ended with everyone joining in on traditional Passover songs.By that time, the wine had taken effect, and the kids were struggling to stay awake. When the last piece of matzah had been eaten and the last glass of soda had been consumed, we helped clear the table, wash the dishes and took our exceedingly full stomachs to bed.
The next morning, instead of going to work or  school, we went to services at our synagogue, and then repeated the entire process that evening for the second seder.

Slowly, inevitably, time marches on. Countless Passovers have come and gone.
Sadly,my grandmother Helen, great aunt Hattie, Mom, Dad, sister Judi, and brother-in-law Al have left empty seats at the seder table, with the next generation of our children taking their place, carrying on our  tradition for the many Passovers yet to come. The silver is gleaming, the candles have been lit.  It's time for me to begin the seder. 

Music for My Father

                                                                           

Music For My Father

Replica of Dad's antique kiddush cup

 Just before  the onset of World War I, my grandfather, Israel Marder,  left the little town of Brode in the Austro-Hungarian Empire to make a new life in America. My father, Sol, was very young at the time. He  and my grandmother, Helen,were supposed to join him when  Grandpa could afford money for their steamship tickets. Unfortunately, the war intervened, leaving family on both sides of the ocean, not to be reunited until 1920.

When Dad and his mother finally said farewell to Brode, they applied for a joint passport that recounts their trip across Europe to Le Havre, France where they planned to  board a boat for the United States.   At one border crossing, after learning that they were Jews, the guards  began to taunt them and shoot over their heads . Dad was immediately shoved down into a ditch and warned not to raise his head .Shots were fired  that sounded like bees buzzing.Heedless of the warning, a boy next to him got to his knees. With a cry, he fell over dead.

  The Polish Eagle  in Dad's passport is boldly stamped over an entry that documents their stay in a little Polish town  called Auswieczem. Twenty years later, it was the site of the infamous Ausweitz death camp.  Every time I look at this passport, I am struck with what would have happened if my grandmother and father had stayed there.

 Never-the less, they somehow  arrived at LeHavre.  Dad and Grandma Helen (we called her" Nanny") sailed across the Atlantic to New York City. The very first thing they saw was a little boy eating a banana. Right then and there, Dad decided he wanted one. Somehow, he was able to get that banana, but didn't know that it had to be peeled. After biting into the skin, he started to throw it away. People laughed at him, calling him a "greenie" or "greenhorn."They were right;.he had an awful lot to learn. After a  short stay on Ellis Island, both were finally cleared for the long  train ride to Chicago, where they were met by my grandfather.

The Marder family settled  a few blocks from the famous Maxwell Street Market,, a neighborhood already heavily populated by newly arrived Jewish immigrants. Like many others of their generation, my grandparents wanted their son to  learn English and become educated in the ways of their newly adopted country. Dad was soon enrolled in a school near  his home. One day, as my dad tells it, he got in deep trouble with his teacher over a remark she made about Grandma. Becoming incensed, Dad took off his heavy shoe and heaved it at the woman. As you might expect, that got him thrown out of school.

Instead of telling his parents, Sol secretly enrolled himself in another neighborhood school, where apparently he did very well .  Speaking Polish, Yiddish and German, my father soon added English to his list of languages, and began earning pocket  money by tutoring students after school.

As a high school student, Dad attended Harrison High , then Crane College. His goal was to become a physician. The untimely death of my grandfather, however, meant  he now needed to support his mother. Instead of  attending medical school, Dad chose to become a chiropodist (or as it is now called, podiatrist) because the course of study was shorter. He graduated from the Chicago College of Chiropody and proudly set up his new practice on the west side of Chicago, on the busy corner of Madison and Western. He shared an office space with a dentist with whom he traded professional services, fixing Dr. Stein's feet in exchange for free dental care.

It was about this time that my father met the beautiful, dark haired young woman that he would marry.There is a photo of my parents together at this time at a beach. Mom, slim and lovely, stands with her arm around Dad's waist. He is dressed in a light linen suit, with wavy, slicked down  dark hair and a hint of a stylish mustache. What a striking couple they were! Jean and Sol married in 1933 with the blessings of both families.

In 1939 my sister, Judi ,was born.Then, when the U.S entered the World War II, Dad was deferred because he was the sole support of his mother. He  felt compelled to do  something meaningful while his friends fought overseas, and so he volunteered to become a block warden. He patrolled the neighborhood with a helmet and flashlight, making sure houses were in compliance with air raid procedures, and was a first responder if medical attention was needed.

After the war, my parents decided to go into business for themselves. . Dad closed his practice, but wisely kept up his certification as a chiropodist. Mom had valuable experience working in her dad's clothing store.

Her youngest brother, my Uncle Maury, had just been discharged from the Army, and he generously helped Mom and Dad start a men's work and casual clothing store on the southwest side of Chicago.

One day, as my Grandmother Celia was making lunch for her son-in-law, she asked Dad to buy a raffle ticket. He declined, claiming that he'd never won anything in his life. Despite his protests, Grandma pulled out a dollar and bought the ticket for him. A week later, she was on the phone to my mother, excitedly telling her that Dad had won a new car. This was a big prize, new cars had been impossible to find during the war.
Also, it meant that my parents could drive across the city and visit my grandparents as often as they wanted.

For a number of years, my parents lived in an apartment in back of their store, with my grandmother watching my sister, Judi.  Dad and Mom were devoted to each other, but he also had very strong ties to his mother. At times, I know it must have been hard trying to please the women in his life. Eventually, my family moved to a larger apartment near their store, where hopefully there was more space and more peace.

The year I was born, Dad sponsored my great-aunt Hattie, enabling her to emmigrate to the United States. I'm sure it made my grandmother very happy to be finally reunited with her sister after so many long years. In order to accommodate his extended family , Dad and a friend  purchased the two story apartment building that would become our new home on Francisco Avenue. Together with my great-aunt, we now had six family members under one roof.

.As a little boy, I remember telling my dad  I had a sharp pain on the bottom of  my foot. He sat me down at the kitchen table, took off my shoe and sock and carefully examined the sole of my foot. In very simple terms,  he explained that I had a plantar's wart and that he had a doctor friend who could fix it. The next day, I was introduced to Dad's friend, Dr. Zipperman, who treated me over the next few weeks. Every time I went there, Dr. Zipperman told me what a great doctor my father was. I was very impressed and extremely proud of Dad. That was the first time I knew that he was a skilled podiatrist.

In the early 60's, two seemingly unrelated events changed my father's career path.  Nearby Midway Airport closed, because its small runways couldn't accommodate the new  jets that needed to land there. This took away a large amount of business from my parents' store, because the Midway ground crews had always shopped there. As luck would have it, a nearby podiatrist announced his retirement and was searching for someone to take over his practice. Dad took a calculated risk and bought out Dr. Lloyd, who had a substantial patient following.  Dad's practice soon began to thrive. I know it meant a great deal to him to return to his chosen profession. My mother began to take on more responsibility, and  business slowly improved.


When I was a junior in high school, I was running on a cinder track in during gym class. Someone in back of me gave my back a deliberate shove and I sprawled on the ground. Because I used my hands to break my fall, they were the only things that were hurt badly. There were guys in my class no one wanted to mess with, so I said nothing to anyone. When I got to my parents' store, my mother took one look at the gravel embedded in my hands and told me to go to Dad's office.

This was the first time I became my father's patient, With infinite care, Dad  cleaned me up, then sat me in
his examining chair with a bright light above it. Pulling on rubber gloves, and using a  magnfier over his glasses, he began to pick out each  piece of gravel with a probe and a tiny pair of tweezers. After he finally finished, he applied an antibiotic cream and gave me a couple of aspirin for the pain. No one could have treated me with more skill or kindness. I saw Dad in a whole new light after that.

Like Mom, Dad was very involved in Jewish causes. He served on our synagogue board and was a charter member of the local B'nai Brith men's lodge . I have a vivid memory of Dad editing a  monthly bulletin on our dining room table that he mailed to  local members. He also served as an advisor to high school boys who belonged the Bnai Brith Youth. Eventually, he took office as president of the Midwest Region. Through Bnai Brith, my father worked  with prominent  Chicagoans like Mayor Daley and  Cardinal Joseph Stritch. One summer,on a mission to Israel, he was honored to  meet with David Ben Gurion. Finally, my father was always a  strong voice against anti-Semitism and an active member of the Anti-Defamation League.

While I've  inherited the love of good literature from my mother, I know Dad strongly influenced my passion for music.
 He loved to listen to Hebrew  recordings of Cantors Jan Pearce and Richard Tucker and  soundtracks from musicals like " Fiddler on the Roof."  Every Passover, Dad  led our family seders, chanting the songs from the   Hagadah in beautiful,  flawless Hebrew.I can see him now at the head of our dining room table, in a crisp white shirt and striped  tie, holding up his silver wine cup as he sings the holiday Kiddush. My place was always on his right, and as I got older, I was able to sing some of the service with him.


 Dad urged me to join our synagogue choir, made sure that I practiced my accordion in grade school, was delighted that I took up the bass clarinet and saxophone in high school, and really loved hearing me play guitar. When my first guitar was carelessly broken on a high school trip, Dad took me to  a studio in the Loop and replaced it  because he knew how much I love to play.   My junior year, with the help of my parents, our Jewish youth group organized a "hootenanny" or folk concert.
 When my two  friends and  I  appeared on stage sing  and play guitar, sure enough,there was  Dad sitting next to Mom. smiling and clapping along with the music.

There is much more to tell about my relationship with my father, but it's a story for another time and place.
When Dad's health failed, he moved to  a retirement home. He loved to take me to the old fashioned ice cream parlor there and treat me to a dish of my favorite coffee ice cream. When my daughter, Julie, was a toddler, Dad's eyes would light up when we took her to visit.

Just a week before the Jewish New Year in 1990, Dad passed away. Our rabbi wisely told me that, although I would be in mourning, he would allow me to sing in the High Holiday services, He said that it would help me get through the grieving period. He was right. The songs I sang were, as always, for my father.

Sing a New Song

                                                         

As a  young boy with a high voice, and a real  passion for singing, I tried out for  the choir at our synagogue. You  just needed to sing on key , carry a  tune  reasonably well  and do a passable job of reading Hebrew. A number of my friends were already  in the choir, so I was eager and proud to join them.

At first, I only sang at Friday night services, which were only a little over  an hour long . I thought it was fun  being up near the altar, singing my heart out in a  long black robe with a  funny white collar.  Our quirky choir leader, Mr. Squire,was an elderly man with a tuning fork and smelled like menthol He  muttered under his breath when we were out of tune. I belonged to the boy alto section;  Mr. Squire affectionately  called us  his   "little cockaroaches" if  we weren't on key or paying attention. Despite his grumbling, I think old Mr. Squire really like teaching us to sing. When we were at our best, he'd nod his head and smile.

To conclude each  Sabbath service, it was customary for a choir boy to chant the "Kiddush" or traditional  blessing over the wine. When it eventually was  my turn, I had to ignore  about a  million butterflies  in my stomach. Walking slowly from the choir section, I nodded to the rabbi who smiled and  handed me a  silver goblet brimming with  wine. I climbed up the step under the podium, then,.taking a deep breath, I began to sing into the microphone. Much to my amazement, my voice soared over the congregation. I looked up and saw my mom and dad beaming with pride.

I did a good job of completing  the prayer without a hitch, and then raised the full cup to my lips. As I took a  big gulp,  the fumes immediately went straight to my head. The congregation laughed  as my face and ears turned as red as the kosher wine. I put the cup down. The rabbi looked at me as if to say" Next time, ask for grape juice." Thanks, I'll remember that.



The year I turned ten , I became a member of  the select High Holiday choir. We  rehearsed during the last weeks of  summer, in preparation for the Jewish New Year in the early fall . Our synagogue was not at all air conditioned, so  we sweated as much as we sang.  Also, we never knew from year to year who the synagogue would hire as a cantor; we had to adapt to a new person's habits each time. One distinguished gentleman  sported a fedora and smoked foul smelling  black Parodi cigars, claiming they soothed his throat. Imagine someone doing that at choir practice today! Each cantor brought a special style to our choir and I learned something  from all of them.

 Singing for the holidays meant standing around a podium for at least three  hours on both days of Rosh Hashonah and Yom Kippur. Because it was often very warm, we were allowed to wear t-shirts under our robes. Even so, most of us came equipped with packets of Wet-wipes to cool us off. An even bigger challenge came on Yom Kippur, because upon turning thirteen you were obligated to fast from sunset to sunset.  Younger boys would rush home between the afternoon and evening service and grab a light snack to keep them going. For our efforts, the synagogue honored  us  with a small stipend ,depending on our years of singing in the choir. I honestly don't think the money made that much of a difference to me. I just loved  the intricate , sacred melodies and being part of the service.

Then, just before I entered high school, my high alto voice dropped an octave, and I  had to learn to be  a tenor. Mr. Squire had retired, and our leader was  Mr. Sher, a skilled choir master who had a more modern outlook. Instead of just using prayer books, he gave us complicated arrangements on sheet music. This took some getting used to, as  I struggled to gain control over  my new ,lower  voice. Thanks to my friend ,  Art, a tenor  with a beautiful voice and a college major in music, I was  soon able to sing the new part  with confidence. I  remained in Peter Sher's choir until end the of high school.

I regret to say that I never joined a choir in college; looking back, I guess I was too wrapped up in playing folk music on my guitar.It wasn't until much later,as an adult, that  I  once again lent  my voice to a synagogue choir. For a number of memorable years, I sang in the Sabbath evening and High Holiday choirs in  Buffalo Grove. We were led by a  cantor with a rich, beautiful voice, who had come to our synagogue complete  with his family of singers. Each of  his sons had real talent, and  Cantor Aberman  wisely built the choir around them.  Also, the cantor  was married to a woman with a gorgeous  voice. Even though our choir was all male, no one ever objected to Sandy's clear soprano from her seat in the front row.    Eventually ,each of the cantor's  sons  married,, had children and moved to the city. Finally when the cantor  and his wife moved to be closer to their sons and many grandchildren, the choir was disbanded.  I felt lost without a place to sing.

When our family considered  joining a new synagogue in Northbrook, one of my first questions was "Do you have a choir?" The answer was no, but that didn't deter me. I told the rabbi that I had some vocal experience, and he said that with practise, I could lead part of the Saturday services. After a few months, I thought I was ready, and we set a date for my debut as a soloist. Besides having to memorize all of the melodies, I had to be sure I pronounced the Hebrew correctly.

Fighting the old familiar butterflies, when the time came, I think I did fairly well.
Except, that is, when I had to return the Torah scroll to the ark while singing.
Leave it to me, I started to make a wrong turn and would have ended up singing to a wall, if it weren't for a friend who tapped me on the shoulder and turned me around.

One year, there actually was a holiday choir in the synagogue. We sang in the orthodox service, led by a cantor with a marvelous, high voice. Much to my dismay, this was a one time occurance. When the synagogue hired a new cantor, he sang by himself, but asked for volunteers to join him in the brief service that ended Yom Kippur.  A group of us came up and we had an impromptu choir. This tradition continued from year to year, but wasn't nearly enough to satisfy my passion for choral singing.

Just recently ,my wife suggested that I search for a real  choir to fill the void.. I scoured the internet for Jewish groups in our vicinity and found Kol Zimrah , a choral  group in the northern suburbs. Getting up my courage, I arranged for an audition. The  director gave me some scales to sing, asked me to read sheet music, then had me sing a song I had prepared from a prayer book. He must have liked what he heard, because a few minutes later he introduced me to the choir as the newest second tenor. I was delighted!

I sat down in the tenor section and immediately, the men on both sides of began to fill me in. Looking at a thick folio of music I was both impressed and overwhelmed at the complexity of the pieces I needed to learn.
Before I knew it, Richard, our director, raised his hands and fifty men and women instantly  filled the room their amazing voices. Michael, the tenor on my right, held up the score so I could see it and traced his finger over the notes he was singing. Slowly, I caught on, and before too long, began to softly follow his lead.
After a little while, I grew more courageous, and sang a bit louder. There was a tricky rest in one song that demanded everyone to stop singing for a beat. I , of course, blasted right through it. The director held up his finger as if to say, "that's one...."   After restarting the measure, I did it again. Richard shook his head and whispered, "That's two..."  The third time, I got it right. Everyone clapped, and, like a little kid, I pulled my kippah over my red face in embarrassment. From then on, I paid much closer attention to the director.

 Each time we began a new song, Richard  patiently worked with us to ensure we understood all the nuances in it:  rhythm, breath control, dynamics and the secret of blending into one beautiful voice..  This was hard work for me, but I really enjoyed it, and began to smile while I sang.

At the end of the evening, I was tired, but happy. As we packed up our music , a woman from the alto section came over to me. "Stuart, remember me?" she said, putting her arm around my shoulder. Her face was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. " I'm Myra...I sang at your wedding."  I laughed in amazement and hugged her.

When we were married in August of 1976, my wife's friend brought her guitar and her sweet voice to our wedding. Myra sang and strummed and softly in Hebrew as we walked up to the chuppah, adding just the perfect touch to our  wedding ceremony.
After Maxine left her job as a social worker, Myra assumed her position. The years went by, and we lost touch with her.  Now, a lifetime later, she was back and in the choir I had just joined.

I strongly believe that everything in life is for a purpose. I know that this  seemingly chance reunion with Myra is a sign  I've found a wonderful new place to sing,

Finding My Way

The gargoyles atop Altgeld Hall

Unlike some of my friends, I never had any doubt about where I wanted to go to college.Northern Illinois University was far enough away from home to make me feel independent, yet  close enough to jump on a Greyhound for a weekend trip back to the city. By the middle of my high school senior year, I had been  accepted and  was proudly wearing my N.I.U Huskie sweatshirts to class.



That July,along with about 40 other members of the class of 1969,, I attended orientation in Neptune Hall, a large  dorm in the middle of campus. We listened to talks from counselors, sweated  over  our fall class schedules, and wore down our number 2 pencils  taking hours of  placement tests.
Finally, after being treated to a less than spectacular dorm lunch, we were left on our own to roam around the campus. I met up with two high school friends and we walked over to  the Student Union to buy  t-shirts for ourselves and assorted souvenirs  for our families. As we wound our way back to the dorm, one of my friends remarked how easy it would be to get lost.

That fall, my dad drove me and two of my friends to college. Our car was fully loaded, because we all were  moving into the dorms on the same day.  About half way to DeKalb, the car got a flat tire. In order to get to the spare, of course, we had to unload the trunk. We were quite a sight, with three large footlockers and assorted junk piled up by the side of the road. Nevertheless, with all of us pitching in,  and my dad supervising,we got the flat off, the spare tire on , the luggage reloaded, and we were on our way in record time.

When we arrived, the campus was pretty busy, even though   classes didn't  start unil the following Monday.  We found Lincoln Hall,my new home for the coming year, and when I got to my  room., the lower bunk was made, there were books on the shelves, clothes in one closet, but my roommate was nowhere to be found.
I unpacked, put my clothes away, made my bed, stowed the rest of my belongings, and hugged my dad goodbye. He told me to study hard and watch out for "party girls." Um...ok.

After he left, I unpacked my guitar and started to play. In a little while , there was a knock on the door, and a short, slightly built dark haired guy stuck his head in.

 "Hi, I'm Joe, "he said," and I'm looking for Brett, your roommate."
I told him that I hadn't seen him, and stuck out my hand to say hello.
Joe's eyes lit up when he saw what I held in my other hand.
 "Do you mind?" he asked, reaching for my guitar.
 I was curious to hear him play and told him to go ahead.
 Joe began strumming and singing Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind."
I had a new friend!

We swapped my guitar back and forth for a while, then  Joe said," I live off campus.
We could walk over and get my guitar, maybe get something to eat."
With no plans at all ,and the prospect of spending the rest of the day in an empty dorm, I was happy to go along. I  left a note for Brett, and we started off to Joe's apartment.  It only  took about ten  minutes to get there, and since I had been  most of that way before, I didn't pay too much attention to where we were going.

Not, that is, until we approached the eastern edge of  campus. There was  old Altgeld Hall, looking for all the world like a haunted castle. Joe told me  Altgeld had  been the first building on campus back when Northern was a teacher's college before the turn of the 20th century. The castle was topped with towers and fierce, ugly gargoyles that spouted water when it rained. Joe told me the story about the ghosts of  old students who still  roamed the upper towers. .As we continued walking, I glanced over my shoulder. The gargoyles glared  back as if to say " What, you never saw a gargoyle before?"

Joe's "apartment" was in a home a mile or so off campus. Freshmen who didn't get a dorm assignment were put up in private housing .This house had been subdivided and Joe's tiny  room was actually in the  basement. He had use of  the communal kitchen, dining area and bathroom, and could watch t.v. in a small living room on the first floor. I thought it was kind of quaint, but  really couldn't see living there all year.  Joe was quick to to point out  one major advantage this place had over dorm living.  You could have beer whenever you felt like it. His housemates  had  chipped in and the refrigerator was well stocked. In those days, beer was really inexpensive, so all you needed was someone with an ID to make a run to a liquor store. Looking in the fridge, I saw cases  of Schlitz and Grain Belt, equally tasty and cheap.

Both of us were hungry, so heading to a supermarket in town, we got the makings for hamburgers.
Instead of broiling the burgers, Joe fried them in a skillet. I have to admit that although they were greasy, they turned out really well. With a bottle of cold Grain Belt, potato chips and a pickle, we sat down to  a feast.

Until  late that night,we drank beer, watched t.v., played our guitars, sang folk songs,  told stupid jokes, talked about girls, and speculated about what classes would be like the coming week. Joe laughed when I admitted that I had two classes in Altgeld and cautioned me about the ghosts.
 Eventually, Joe fell asleep on the couch, so I decided to find  my way back to my dorm.

I really thought I knew where I was going, until  I stopped  in front of Altgeld Hall. It was full  dark by then and a  million crickets were chirping, and the cheap beers I had earlier were doing a number on my head.

Looking up, I saw the ugly gargoyles on top of the towers glaring down at me. They seemed to be saying, "Hah!  You're back! Congratulations, Stuart, you are totally lost." And they were right...I was. The campus seemed unfamiliar, and I started to panic. I had no clue how I was going to make it back.

 I  circled the old castle building a few times.  Suddenly, I could clearly see  the lights from the the new high rise dorms in the distance. Putting one tired foot in front of the other, I found my way to Lincoln Hall and my  roommate, Brett, who was patiently sitting on his bunk, waiting for me.

After introducing ourselves, he asked" Where the heck ya been? I was gonna take a shower and warsh my hair"
. Brett was from Peoria, so I was going to have to get used to his downstate twang.

I told him about Joe and how I'd spent the evening.  When I got to the part about Altgeld Hall, he looked at me and said,"Heard that old castle's just plain haunted. I was you, I'd plan on stayin' far away."
Too tired to respond, I climbed up onto my bed and fell asleep listening to the crickets chirping in the late summer night.

Tramps and Thieves

"I can get it cheaper."

                                                             
By the time I entered high school, I was putting in regular hours at our clothing store. I would come home from classes, have a snack, then  walk a few blocks north to 63rd street and  a mile to the store. When the weather turned ugly, I rode the bus from school and got off only a  few steps from work.

There were times at our store when a fairly large number of customers needed help at once. That's when I kept a sharp  eye out for shoplifters. Whether  on the sales floor or putting away merchandise, I tried to stay near front of the store. From there, I had a good view of everything that was going on. Most of the time, I was successful in preventing our stock from disappearing.

One day, while my mom was busy with a customer, a number of  scruffy looking boys came in to check out at the expensive full length Italian leather jackets on display near the front door.I recognized one of them who had come in an hour before to look around.
 He examined  at the price tags on the jackets  and sneered,"That's real sharp,but  I can get it  a whole lot cheaper,"
" I don't think so, " I said," these are imported. Can I show you something a little less expensive?"
 He didn't answer. Instead, he and his friends picked up the entire rack, and ran out the door,leather jackets and all.  I was dumbstruck.

. Mom immediately  dropped what she was doing and called the police. Without a second thought, I ran out the door and started chasing the thieves. As I started to gain on them , they dropped the jackets on the ground. For a split second, I thought I had won. Then, one of them shoved the jackets off the rack, pulling off a long, heavy metal section from its socket. He swung the pipe in two hands and came down hard on my shoulder .When he realized I wasn't giving up,  he aimed for my head. I jerked backwards and  beat a hasty retreat down the block.

Breathless, I ran back into the store. My mother was furious, both at the brazen shoplifters, and at me.
"Don't you EVER pull a stunt like that again," she said, her eyes blazing.
"The jackets are insured. Either the police will get them back, or we'll get money for them. But.. you aren't  replaceable." Then she began to cry.

We never recovered the jackets, but were reimbursed for them.  I kept looking for the kids who stole them, but they never came back.

Mmmm ..Chipped Beef on Toast!

Includes a yummy recipe!

 When I joined the Army Reserves, I was assigned to the 374th Convalescent Center on the southeast side of Chicago. After being sworn in,they  offered me the choice of two specialties: field lineman or cook. . Being a lineman meant climbing tall  trees and telephone  poles and stringing heavy  lines under enemy fire. How much trouble could I get into in the kitchen? Without a second thought, I became a  cook.

After eight  challenging weeks of Basic Training at Fort Leonard Wood, everyone was more than ready for a change. Finally, things  seemed to be looking up. Our drill sergeants were gradually morphing from merciless monsters into human beings. On the night  before we graduated Basic Training,, they surprised us with a party, complete with all the beer we could drink. When Taps was played , we staggered to bed.,expecting to be woken at the break of dawn. Instead, we were allowed to sleep  undisturbed until 8:00 the next morning,probably because the sergeants had as much beer as we did.


The next day, slightly  hung over, but  in full dress uniform with our newly earned rank sewn our sleeves, we marched in the graduation parade. With heads held  mostly high, we strode past the reviewing stand. The platoon leaders gave the order ,"Present arms!" Up came our hands in perfect unison.  Just like that, the toughest eight weeks of my life were over. Things were bound to improve.

That afternoon, everyone packed their bags and climbed aboard buses for advanced  training as drivers , engineers, infantry, mechanics, medics and cooks. Reserve and National Guard soldiers would train only for  eight more weeks  and then return home. Those men who had enlisted or had been drafted into the Regular Army faced the strong certainty of a thirteen month tour of duty Viet Nam. Some of these soldiers would never see  home again.

The  ride to cook school took all of ten minutes. We were all prepared for the same  harassment that we had experienced in Basic, but, to our delight, no one met us when we got off the bus. Wandering around the company area, we saw  large, wooden  two story  building  shaded by tall pine trees. In truth, the place looked more like a campground than an Army compound. After a bit, we found the orderly room and reported in for duty.

Inside, with his feet propped up on a desk, sat  the company commander. He looked up, took our salutes, then offered each  us a glass of cold orange juice. Was this a trick? Thumbing through the blue
folders that contained our records, the major glanced up at my name tag.
 "Says here you're a college grad, Marder. That true?"
By now, I was tired of answering the same question that gotten me in trouble too many times.
"Truthfully, sir, I am," I said, bracing myself for the inevitable consequences.
"So you want to learn to cook, do you?" he demanded.
 "Yes, sir, I do," I answered..
"Well , soldier, you've a little bit of grunge on your belt buckle, but other than that, you'll do fine."
I stood there, dumbstruck.
"That's all," the major said. "Go get yourselves settled. Chow is at 1200 hours You'll find it's better here than in Basic."
We saluted, did a quick about face, and beat a hasty retreat.

 After drawing  clean cook's whites, sheets, pillows and blankets  from the supply sergeant , we walked over to our new barracks. It was a veritable  five star hotel compared to the ones we had just left. The squad bay was wide and airy. A number of ceiling fans were doing a decent job of dealing with the Missouri heat. The washrooms were down the hall, rather than down the block. And, wonder of wonders, the toilets were in private stalls and the showers had curtains. Wow! What did we do to deserve this?

Soon the room  began to fill up with new arrivals .  After a while, out the corner of my eye, I saw a  drill sergeant standing in the doorway. He had a smile on his face and his hands on his hips. Someone yelled "Attention!" and we froze into the position.
Now, I thought, we're in for it.

The drill sergeant looked us over, put us at ease and said," For the last eight weeks, you learned how to
be a soldier, now we're going to teach you how to cook. You'll go to classes every day. After six weeks, we'll  assign you to work in  a company mess hall somewhere on the base. There's a lot to learn, but you'll have the best instructors. They're all civilians, retired Army mess sergeants . Pay attention to what they have to teach you.
 From now on, we expect you to keep yourselves clean. You'll have plenty of  time to shower and shave every morning. You'll draw fresh whites every day. Get a haircut once a week and keep your hands clean and nails clipped. You will need to pass my inspection before you set foot into the classroom or kitchen. And by the way, you can talk to me, I promise I don't bite."

The next morning, we awoke at 6:30 AM, and were told to report outside in fatigues. For the next fifteen or so minutes, we jogged around the area, singing at the top of our lungs. Everyone was amazed at how easy this was. After being dismissed, we ran to the showers, then changed into our cook's whites. Our drill sergeant inspected us carefully, then said, "You've got a half hour before chow."  He left the barracks and in two seconds we were all asleep.

For three hours in the morning and three in the afternoon, we attended classes.There we learned how to read and follow recipes that had been in the Army since World War II. We were lectured about sanitation, safety and fire prevention. After every class session, we went into the kitchen and were split into groups of four. Each group prepared the same dish. Our instructors judged how closely we followed the recipe and how we prepared it and how we presented the final product. Everything we made we ate. .The chipped beef on toast, or S**t on a Shingle was the most unappetizing dish we had to prepare and swallow. .Undoubtedly, you'll want to read more about this delicacy. Only the very bravest soldier would dare eat it.


 Creamed Chipped Beef on Toast
   
Special Nostalgia Recipe
 

Jean

Jean Rasenick Marder- circa 1933

 On the wall in our family room, above my desk, hangs a sepia toned, silver edged framed photo of  my Mom,  looking for all the world like a young movie star of  the 1930's. The picture was taken when she became engaged to my dad, at eighteen years of age, with her whole life in front of her. Every time I look at this photo, I miss my mother, desperately.

  Jean Rasenick Marder was born in 1919, the daughter of Russian immigrants, Henry and Celia Rasenick. Her family first lived at Taylor and Paulina on the near west side of Chicago and later moved to the more prosperous Austin neighborhood. Mom had eight brothers and sister, only a small number of whom I remember today. Her family came from Motele, Belarus, a town that was utterly destroyed during World War II. My grandmother, Celia Cycz, was first cousin to Leonard and Phil Chess, the  blues impresarios who ran Chess Records in the '50's and 60's in Chicago.

When she was sixteen years old, Jean left Austin High School to work in Grandpa Henry's  store. There, she did tailoring and catered to the customers who came to buy all varieties of  men's  work and casual clothing. When she was 18 years old, she met my father, Sol, who was preparing to become a chiropodist, or podiatrist as they are called today. They became engaged, and in the winter of 1933, entered into a long and happy marriage.

My mother never finished high school, but in spite of that, set out to educate herself. She was a voracious reader. Any spare time she had, when she wasn't working hard in our store, raising her family of three, or involving herself with Jewish causes, my mother read. My fondest memory is of mom sitting at the kitchen table after supper with a cup of coffee and a book. The kids cleared the table and made a bee line for the t.v. in the living room. Likely ,my dad was stretched out on the couch, trying to get a nap while we bounced around on the cushions. Mom would stay in the kitchen, reading until she later joined us in front of the television. She cautioned us to let Dad nap and shooed us off the couch.

 Mom had an eclectic taste in reading material. She would read the Sunday newspaper from cover to cover, making sure to check the advice of Ann Landers and the gossip of Irv Kupcinet who had grown up with my dad. Next came Parade Magazine and then finally, the comics, which she read aloud to me, until I could read them myself when they were spread on the kitchen floor to keep us off after it was washed.

Mom also read current best sellers, and kept a modest collection of paperbacks in her bedroom. On her bookshelf, you could find Herman Wouk's Margery Morningstar next to Exodus by Leon Uris. One day when everyone was at work and my grandmother was napping, I introduced myself to Nelson Algren's
gritty The Man With the Golden Arm.  I took the book from the shelf to my bedroom and began to read. I never told mom about the book, instead going to an encyclopedia for answers about heroin addiction.
From then on,  I read whatever was on my mother's bookshelf , age appropriate or not. I was probably the only kid who read Payton Place twice.

My passion for old movies and t.v shows comes from my mother. We would scan  the T. V Preview to see what shows were on Saturday night and pick a classic movie. We  watched" From Here to Eternity" and "The Best Years of Their Lives" so many times, we could recite the dialogue. During the week, Mom was home on Wednesday nights, so she'd do the ironing while we laughed at Red Skelton and later, Carol Burnette.

My mother was also very involved in the Jewish organization, B'nai Brith. She took an active leadership role in the women's chapter that met in our synagogue, and helped found another chapter on the southeast side of Chicago. Mom's proudest possession was her Bnai Brith  president's pin, a sparkling diamond menorah with a gold  gavel. There were many  evenings when dozens of women crowded into our apartment. They all had wonderful things to tell me about my mother, as I struggled to avoid their lipstick kisses on my cheeks.

While mom fed us  boring, but filling lunches of macaroni and cheese, tuna and egg salad or baked halibut, she truly excelled at making excellent Sabbath meals. After lighting candles and saying the blessing over wine and challah, we would settle in for the evening. There was homemade chicken soup with plump, tender, matzo balls, roast chicken, veal, or brisket of beef, noodle or potato kugel,(a kind of pudding), fresh salad with my dad's favorite garlic dressing, and some kind of frozen vegetable. Mom never failed to notice that my slim sister Judi,"ate like a bird."
Because we  kids were allowed a small glass of heavy, sweet kosher wine, half way through the meal we struggled to keep awake for dessert. Our choice was limited to non-dairy items: there was a plate of cookies, the inevitable baked apple, kosher jello that never quite made the grade, and my favorite, fruit cocktail with a prized ,genuine maraschino cherry.

  Please notice that mom did not believe in soda with a Sabbath meal. She said that it would only fill you up and "pollute you."  You figure that one out, because I never could.  We could have juice or water only when we proved that our plate was clean. As a teenager, I finally  convinced my mom that diet cola would do us no harm.Now, I 'm not so sure, considering the kind of sweeteners they used then.

My mother worked long and hard to develop the family business. When my father returned to his podiatry practice in the early '60's, mom took over running the store herself, with Dad pitching in on week-ends. This worked out very well, because my mother was savvy enough to carry the kind of shoes that fit the custom appliances that Dad prescribed. When his patients asked about these shoes, they received a flier from our store. Both the practice and the store benefited from this referral.

When I was in high school, I took an Advanced Placement world history class with an exceptional teacher. His class was both interesting and challenging. One day, Mom started reading my text book and I had to practically beg for her to return it to me. Up to that point, I was doing well in the class, getting low A's on my tests and quizzes. Mom decided that wasn't good enough, because I needed to get a high grade on the AP test. Starting that week she became my study partner, reading the chapters and testing my knowledge. I began getting 100% on all of the quizzes and tests. Mr Coleman complimented me and I told him about Mom's help. He joked that his tests were too easy, and said my mother could probably write harder ones. She laughed when I told her this and said,"Probably."

I expected my mother to always be there for us. When I entered the Army for a summer of training, I called and wrote whenever I could. One day, she told me had been diagnosed with diabetes. I remember the sun beating down on the phone booth near the barracks, but my skin turned icy cold. I had no idea what that diagnosis meant for mom, but I knew it wasn't good. She assured me she was fine, not to worry, that I'd be home soon.
That's when Mom's health started its long, slide downhill. There were no electronic glucometers then.

Monitoring blood sugar was not nearly as effective as it is today. My brother, Bob, was then a resident at Rush Hospital, and made sure to get the best kind of advice and  care for Mom. Still, diabetics are prone to infection, and she underwent one surgery after another.
 One day, I walked over to Rush after doing reserve duty in the Veteran's Hospital.,self conscious in my Army hospital whites. Mom was recovering from an operation, but had a gleam in her eye. When her nurse walked in, she introduced me as her son, and made it known that I was single. Then I noticed that my mother was shivering. As covered her, I became chilled myself, even though the room was quite warm. I knew then how little time we had left together.

All too soon, in  the spring of 1975, my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. She passed away in December, only 62 years old. She desperately needed a platelet transfusion and I spent hours on the phone trying to find donors. None of my relatives responded. Maxine barely knew my mother at the time, but she immediately volunteered, despite her overwhelming fear of needles. The next day, Mom was gone.

The night before Mom left us, I had a vivid dream. We were in the bathroom of our house on South Francisco and I was crying bitterly. The radiator was steaming hot, and on it was a white cotton t-shirt. My mother slipped the warm shirt over my head and comforted me."Don't cry. I know you're sad that I'm leaving. But think about how I must feel." I woke up, went to work, and and hour later, Bob was calling with the awful news. 

Michigan Summers

"Michigan seems like a dream to me now." Paul Simon

                                                                       

 I am a Chicagoan, born and bred, but every summer until I entered high school, my family was part of the great Michigan migration.   From Memorial Day until Labor Day, we took an extended vacation along the sandy shores of Lake Michigan, renting cottages in various small towns.

The weekend of Memorial Day, our Chicago home was turned upside down to escape
the heat of the city for the cool breezes of  Lake Michigan. Supermarkets were raided for the empty boxes that we quickly  filled with clothing, toys,books and staples. Down in the basement, my mom unearthed  the silverware,  glassware and dishes that we brought out to Michigan, because the food we ate there wasn't always kosher.

With almost everything  packed, Dad  carefully collected the "medicaments" as he called our eclectic  collection of pharmaceuticals. Toothpaste and toothbrushes, deodorant and Vicks Vaporub, razors and shaving cream, baby oil and  Noxema ,iodine and band aids all went into a  box. He made sure were were prepared for any cosmetic or medical  situation. Unfortunately, though, sunblock had not yet been invented. Spending almost every day on the beach turned us all a deep, dark brown. Attractive?  Yes. Healthy? Definitely not, as my dermatologist informed me many years later. At one time or the other, we all suffered from painful sunburn, and had to deal long term skin damage.

Finally, everything was crammed into the car trunk, usually at least three separate times until it all fit. In the back seat of the car, we built a soft nest of linens, blankets and pillows ,piled so very high that it took a few tries for my sister, brother and I to squeeze ourselves in. That was the very best place to be. With hugs and and kisses and  waves goodbye to my grandmother and great-aunt, we were off for the summer.

 Our family car was not air conditioned, so we  rolled open all of the windows, except for when we passed through the  reeking gas refineries in Hammond and Gary. It was a toss up between the odor and the heat, with the heat winning out. At the outskirts of Michigan City, we cheered when the back wheels of our car crossed the Michigan state line. The windows were once again rolled down and we could almost taste the breeze coming from the big  lake a few miles to the east.

There is one trip to the lake that I distinctly remember.We were starting out late, so I was being a total brat, fighting with my brother, teasing my sister and not listening at all to my parents.I staked my claim to the window seat before getting in the car and then proceeded  to slam the door hard on my finger. For a moment, no one moved as I stared at my hand in horror. My father quickly pulled the car door open, scooped me up and rushed me into the house, where he quickly filled a bowl with ice and stuck my finger in all the way. As reality and throbbing  pain set in, I began to cry uncontrollably, not so much because I hurt, but because I was sure I  had spoiled our vacation. Mom came in , dried my tears and explained  that she would wrap my finger in an ice pack while we traveled. Nothing was mentioned about how my rotten behavior had led to the injury, so I kept my finger on ice and wisely kept  my head down for the rest of the day.

Please don't get the wrong impression about our vacations. My parents were neither wealthy nor without responsibilities. Leaving the city for three months out of the year came at a price, but somehow they always made it work. At the time, Mom and Dad owned a men's clothing store. My father would stay and work in the city most weeks. On Saturdays, he'd close the store at 6:00 sharp, throw a suitcase and some requested supplies into his car, and drive out to see us. My mom kept supper warm for him, and as soon as we heard his tires crunch the gravel, everyone piled out the door to greet him.

 Getting out of  the car, Dad stretched his legs, commented on the trip up, and offered my mother a kiss. She always hugged him and then firmly told him to toss his inevitable smelly cigar in the garbage before joining us at the supper table.
We  brought out a flashlight- trunks didn't come with lights in those days- and hunted for treasure. We were all avid readers, so Dad would manage to bring out library books almost every week ,my monthly supply of science fiction magazines, the Sunday Sun-Times early edition , comic books and, best of all, Mad Magazine.
 Besides these necessities,  blow up beach rings, diving goggles and inner tube patches  were in heavy demand. . Most importantly, a fresh supply of mason jars, dill and herbs arrived to supply us with my mom's incomparable  home made kosher pickles. Made with farm fresh Michigan cucumbers, sealed in jars and stored outside under the house, the partial sun slowly brought  them to briny sour farm stand  perfection .. I have yet to taste a better pickle.

At least three times during the summer, my parents traded places. Dad would stay for the week, while Mom took a bus and then a train into the city. Having Dad to ourselves had some definite culinary advantages. At a loss for meals, Dad loved to make omelets, hot dogs and beans and a delicacy called beef fry lettuce and tomato sandwiches on toast. Occasionally, we made a trek to Captain Dan's Fishery in Union Pier for smoked fish, ,lox and sturgeon.


After Dad picked out the smoked chub and sturgeon he wanted,Captain Dan would carefully weigh out sliced bright orange lox, or smoked salmon, onto a scale. I remember thinking that three dollars a pound was a fortune. Today lox rivals the price of gold on the open market. Bagels, in those days, were unheard of outside of Chicago, so Dad brought them in from a deli in our neighborhood. After breakfast, we headed for a carefree day at the lake,. No matter what town we stayed in, Lake Michigan was always a few blocks away and the blue water and sandy beaches were the main attraction.

The  beach meant total freedom for us. If the water was choppy, we  battled the waves on full sized car inner tubes. On calm days, you could paddle your tube out to deep water, slip on goggles, and dive down to the bottom for smoothly polished rocks. As a little guy, I remember wearing a  Donald Duck ring  around my waist and blowing bubbles in the shallow water. Occasionally, I dug into the shallow bottom for sticky grey "Indian clay" that I'd smear all over my face and arms. I was envious of the older kids who knew how to swim, and begged my parents to teach me. My mother was a good swimmer and a patient instructor. Soon, I was paddling around on my own, doing the dead man's float and exploring underwater near the shore with my very own swim mask and fins.

Not more then twenty yards from the water's edge rose the famous Michigan  dunes. My  friends and I raced up the hills and rolled all the way  down, covered with sand, shrieking hysterically.  When we reached bottom, everyone dashed to the lake and splashed our way in. Needless to say, we weren't too popular with the moms who had their beach chairs by the water's edge. We did this over and over again until we were warned to stay away.

No one went home for lunch. Coolers and picnic baskets were stored under brightly colored beach umbrellas. When we got hungry, we would find our way back to our blankets and share pungent salami sandwiches, Kool Aide,  home made pickles and fruit. Later in the afternoon, the ice cream guy would come around with icy Popsicles. If were were still hungry, we'd go to the beach store for frozen bananas. This also answered the question of where to use the bathroom.

There wasn't much to do in the little lake towns after coming home from the beach in the late afternoon. When we stayed in Lakeside, my parents discovered that the beach store just up the wooden stairs was owned by our second cousins, the Bergers. They had a large soda fountain, a  rack of comic books, and best of all, two pinball machines. One summer,  my mom went on a campaign to fatten me up. Two evenings a week, she treated me to a deliciously thick double chocolate malt at the Berger's fountain. You never heard me complain!  An added plus was that every week, the pinball repair man would appear at the store to test the machines. When Mrs. Berger told him that we were family, he handed my brother and me a fist full of nickels and told us to knock ourselves out. Both machines were in play for over an hour, lights flashing, bumpers bumping, flippers flipping and zappers zapping. A good time was definitely had by all!

With the end of the summer,the car was once again packed up. The night before we left, I always wrote a letter to myself,  detailing all the good things that had happened and the friends that I made and would miss . Tucking  the note into a secret hiding place between a crack in the living room wall, I vowed I would find it the next Michigan summer when we returned.

The Silver Box

-->

Among my most cherished possessions is a slim silver cigarette case, easily well over a hundred years old. Inside this engraved, antique box is a small picture of my great aunt Hattie, and the priceless memory of how she came to live with my family the year I was born.

Hattie Wunder  was a slender, gentle woman with a delightful European accent. She was many things, a speaker of countless languages, a story teller, and a survivor of one the most horrific tragedies in human history, the Holocaust. To me, however, she was simply “Tante” or my great-aunt, who helped raise me and who greatly influenced my life.

  Tante had a natural flair for languages:she was equally  fluent in Yiddish, German, Polish, Hebrew, and, of course, English. Growing up in my house, I picked up a little Yiddish from Tante when she spoke to my father and grandmother. I still firmly believe she switched  effortlessly from English when what she was saying was none of my business. So in high school, she advised me to  study German, since it was so close to Yiddish. With my great aunt tutoring me, I got all A's.

  As a young boy,  I was delighted  that Aunt Hattie possessed a treasure trove of folk and fairy tales. Instead of watching television on rainy summer afternoons or wintry nights, Tante treated me to stories of Hansel and Gretel, the Little Princess and the Little Match Girl. These tales, I found out later, translated  into English. Sometimes,Tante told us snippets about my dad’s childhood in Poland and how he and my grandmother had come to the United States.

 To her everlasting credit, Aunt Hattie never spoke to us of the horrors she left behind during the Second World War. From my father, I later found out that during the Holocaust, she escaped from Poland where her husband  died at the hands of the Nazis.She then fled to France right before the German occupation. From there, she traveled to Switzerland where she worked as a nanny.Then, after the war, she went to Canada to live with cousins. In 1947, she  was sponsored by my father and came to the United States where she was joyously reunited with the nephew and sister she hadn't seen in twenty seven years.

 One day, I  unwittingly made the innocent mistake of showing off my new Boy Scout uniform. As soon as she saw me, Tante began to quietly cry. My khaki shirt and bright red neckerchief reminded my aunt of the despised Hitler Youth from her past.  "Take it off, take it off," she whispered. It was only then that I realized that Tante had stories that never would be told.

Unlike many immigrant women of her generation, Tante was extremely independent. First, she worked as a care giver in a nearby nursery school, and later for the Spiegel Catalog Company, as an office assistant. When my she and my grandmother wanted to attend Saturday services at our synagogue, she insisted they could walk there by themselves. My dad enlisted me to walk along with them. I was rewarded by a gentle smile, a kiss on the cheek from both Tante and my grandmother ,and the inevitable hard candy when we came home from services later that day.

. A speaker of many languages, a teller of tales, and above all, a survivor who escaped the horrors of war, Hattie Wunder was a loving, courageous woman who left a lasting legacy on the people whose lives she touched. To my eternal regret, I never got to say a proper goodby to my great aunt. By the time I finished graduate school, she had returned to Canada, then  spent the last years of her life in Israel. When I heard  of her passing, I grieved for a very long time. Today, I  look at her photo in the silver box and honor her memory with this story.

The Party's Over

They still make the stuff!

On the night of Labor Day, 1961  my three good friends and  I were  celebrating the end of  summer in style  . The next day, we were all starting high school, and  up for having a  very good time that evening. For Paul, Danny, Mike and myself, this meant  listening to the radio, playing poker, popping popcorn,and  slurping and burping down a ton of Vernor's ginger ale and  ice cream. Too young to drink or smoke,so  this would have to do.

We were all  heavily into the new folk music craze in a big way, and fans of  the Midnight Special, an FM show that played great folk songs at night.. So, we turned up the radio in Paul's kitchen,  and broke out the Jiffy Pop,  . The trick was to heat it over the gas flame on the stove until the foil formed a dome, but not so much that the popcorn came out blackened and disgusting. Paul had a lot of practice at this, so we did ok, with only a few dinky refugee kernels left on the bottom.

With the popcorn done, we loaded it into a bowl, got out the Vernor's Ginger Ale from the fridge and scooped ice cream into mugs. All  of us preferred not to mix the Vernor's with ice cream, because it lost its very special burpiness. In those days, you couldn't buy the super fizzy stuff in Chicago, but Paul's mom brought in from Detroit when she visited relatives there. You go, Mrs. Broder!

Caught up in our poker game, listening to The Weavers and Bob Gibson and making pigs of ourselves, the time started to slip away from us. I distinctly remember that I was losing and didn't want to quit.Reluctantly, we called it a night, mistakenly thinking it was Sunday with an 11:00 PM curfew.

Saying goodbye to Paul, the three of us ambled across the street and began slowly making our way home, chattering  excitedly about starting school the next day as freshmen. Just as we passed our synagogue, a car pulled up. From the rolled- down driver's window came," Good evening, boys. Do you know what time it is?"

We knew the answer, but had no idea who these men were.So as fast as we could, we took off like bats out of hell. The car followed us and from a loudspeaker came  our doom.
" Stop!This is the police.  It's a week day night and you are in violation of the 10 o'clock curfew."

Just great!. Busted on the night before starting high school. What now?  And what would our parents say?
The two juvenile officers showed us their badges and we piled into their car.We bitterly argued that all of us were no more than a few blocks from home.  Our pleas ignored, the unmarked car turned around and drove us to the Chicago Lawn Police Station two miles down on 63rd Street. It was only a few  minutes after curfew, but there loomed a long night ahead of us.

63rd Street Police Station

After the short, unsettling ride,  we walked into the red brick police station that looked like it had been built during the Spanish American War.  The floors were dingy, the walls were a grimy green. I did notice a photo of the newly elected President Kennedy brightening an otherwise dreary scene. Maybe we'd get a presidential pardon?

We were ushered upstairs where the desk sergeant filled out forms sealing our fate.   Charged with breaking curfew, he did  promise  if we had no more violations during the year, our records would be wiped clean. But, added the sergeant, we couldn't  go home until one of our parents picked us up. By then  it was 10:45 and Tuesday was the start of high school. We also were full of ginger ale and by then, our bladders were full to bursting.

I knew that my parents were just returning home from a concert. I called home and luckily, my dad answered. In  a quavering voice ,I asked t  be picked up at the police station along with my friends. After a few questions, he said he'd be right over.  To my relief, he sounded much more upset with the police than with my friends and me. He also mentioned that he'd call the boys' parents and tell them they were safe.

     A short time later, Dad walked into the station with a grim look on his face.Having just come home from a night on the town, he was dressed immaculately, with  a dark blue suit, gold cuff links at his wrist and gleaming black shoes He looked like the respected physician he was. Then he began to berate the sergeant.
" Don't you people have anything better to do than to keep these high school boys here when they have classes tomorrow?  Why aren't you patrolling the streets and keeping criminals away from our businesses?"
 "Who are you, mister? What business is this of yours?" demanded the officer.
  "I'm  Doctor Marder. My office is on Kedzie. That's my son and his friends sitting there; I'm taking them home."    I listened and was impressed.
Without another word, Dad strode over to us. A few minutes later, we were on our way back home. Danny and Mike's parents had the same reaction as mine. They couldn't understand why the police couldn't just give us a warning and drive us home. They did warn us, though, that if we broke curfew again, we'd all suffer the same fate. Grounded for the rest of high school!  Lesson noted and well learned.

The Potato Fool

The Potato Fool

Stacks and stacks of 'em.

                                                                   
I had begun  that  morning in Basic Training by being stupid, eating a full, greasy  breakfast before running a mile in the hot sun. Now, I was at the head of the chow line, determined to eat lightly. I figured that if I was first, I could take my time and maybe keep my meal down this time.

  My nemesis, Drill Sergeant Diaz, picked me out immediately. He came over  and looked straight into my eyes.
"I need me a college boy, Marder.. You one a them?" he drawled..
Like the fool I was, I answered, "Yes, Drill Sergeant."
"Then, when y'all are finished filling your face, report to the Mess Sergeant."
 "Yes, Drill Sergeant," I repeated.    Damn!

The mess hall was a  brightly lit, air conditioned building. Just breathing the cold air was a pleasure. You stood in line at attention, two inches from the guy in front of you and got your food on plastic compartmentalized trays.But, if you were foolish enough to take more than you could eat, a Drill Sergeant made sure you finished every last bite... not a pleasant dining experience. Once done, you dumped your  tray on a stack of empties and double timed the entire mile back to the barracks.
When I made to leave,, Drill Sergeant Diaz put out his arm to stop me."Trooper, where the hell  do you think y'all are going?  You got a job to do."
He steered me to the kitchen door
." Report to the Mess Sergeant on the double."

Inside the kitchen were dozens of guys just like me, dressed in new green fatigues. Some were peeling potatoes, some  tending large steaming kettles, most  walking  around with stringy mops,washing the
red brick floor.  Within seconds, a huge black soldier in a spotless white uniform with stripes on his collar came over to me.
"Who the hell are you, and what ARE you doing in MY kitchen?" he boomed.
I couldn't get the words out fast enough.
"Private Marder reports for duty, Sergeant."
" College boy, you are MINE for the rest of today."
I expected him to have some kind of clerical job for me.
  "Get your smart college boy self  over to the closet, grab  a mop and bucket  and start  cleaning up my kitchen."
     So this was KP. And I was in a world of hurt.

Cursing under my breath, I got the required mop, soaked it in a soapy bucket, and started to work. Back and forth, up one aisle, down the next. For what seemed like forever, I scrubbed the already shining floor. The next time I looked at the clock on the wall, it was only an hour later. As soon as I stopped mopping, a private dressed in cooks' whites came over.
"You  left mop strings on my floor", he demanded.
"Get down on your hands and knees and get up every one a those strings."
It would have been futile to argue that my mop was falling apart. Seemed like part of some stupid game.

The next few hours crawled by. I mopped and mopped. Dinner came and we actually got a 20 minute break to eat. Incredibly,there was no chow line, no Drill Sergeants to scream at us, just a peaceful dinner. Maybe things were picking up. I ate my dinner, then headed back to the kitchen.

But  as hard as I looked for my faithful mop, it was nowhere to be found. Now what ?
Every lowly KP had a mop and was going through the motions of cleaning the floor.
I was caught with nothing to do. One of the cooks motioned to me and led me
outside on the loading dock.
"Y'all get a brush and hose. I'm gonna take a break, while you and that other dude over
there gonna swamp out those dumpsters. Now, where the hell did that  Collins go?"

Better and better.  It was now 5:00, the  fierce Missouri sun was still beating down and this joker wanted me to climb into an empty, filthy dumpster and clean out grease and scum  that had been left behind. Reluctantly I grabbed a hose and started spraying into  the nearest dumpster.

"Hey!" I heard from inside the big metal container..
"I'm in here man, this here is my dumpster. That one's yours."

I looked inside and saw I short, freckled kid  with  "Collins "on his fatigue shirt and  a beet red sunburned face sitting on a metal milk crate at the bottom.
This dumpster had been washed clean, and he seemed to be enjoying himself. Looking around, I saw that the cook had disappeared. Collins patiently explained to me that we had hit the jackpot.
"All he cares about is if we clean the dumpsters. How many times doesn't matter, cause he can come out and keeping checking on us. I got this here  dumpster clean, so I guess now I'll help you with yours."
As we began to spray, the second dumpster ,Collins started whistling.


"What could you be  so happy about ?" I asked.
"We're gonna  kill the rest of the day. This dumpster's still smelly , but cool. And we got water, man, water!"
To illustrate he sprayed himself, and grinned like a fool.
"We got it made!," he crowed, soaking me as well.

For the next hour, Collins and I scrubbed out the second dumpster. Like clockwork, the cook came out for a smoke, quickly glanced at our work and went back inside.

We jabbered back and forth,, and invented  our version o f the new hit Otis Reading song.
At the top of our voices we sang:

"Sittin' by the mess hall bay
Watchin'; the dumpsters roll away"
Sittin' by the mess hall bay,
Wastin' time..."

Even though we worked as slowly as we could, the job was finally done.
The cook came out one final time and told us to get back inside.

The fun was over, and there still a few hour left.
The" smoker cook", who turned out to be  lowly E-2 private, was actually curious about what my MOS, or training was going to be.
When I admitted to him that  I was going to be a cook, he actually smiled.
"OK, Cookie, I gotta' nother job for you and your buddy."
We followed him to a storeroom where there were dozens wooden pallets stacked with bags of potatoes and onions.  A vegetable Fort Knox !
"Take all the time you need, but get them sacks off them pallets and onto the shelves on the wall,"he told us.
Turned out, each sack was  about 50 pounds .  Working together, we dragged them across the floor and heaved them onto the shelves.
Red faced and streaming sweat, we worked for about an  hour and then stopped for a break.
 Looking at me carefully, Collins said, "You're one them college boys, ain't you?
What the hell?   "Ok, I said, so what?" I challenged.
"Shouldn't you still be in class 'stead of being in the Army?"
It was as if a whole pallet of potatoes had hit me at once..
I was supposed to be walking across a stage in DeKalb today, accepting  my degree.
"I graduated today...I mean I should have...oh, no."
That's why the Drill Sergeant was looking for me.  He knew and he put me on KP.
"Man, that really sucks. I'm sorry," Collins whispered
"Freakin'  Army," we both said., lifting yet another potato sack.